Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare
by E. Nesbit
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

By E. Nesbit

"It may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be collected
a system of civil and economical prudence. He has been imitated
by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted whether from all
his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules
of practical prudence can be collected than he alone has given to
his country."--Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

PREFACE

The writings of Shakespeare have been justly termed "the richest,
the purest, the fairest, that genius uninspired ever penned."

Shakespeare instructed by delighting. His plays alone (leaving
mere science out of the question), contain more actual wisdom than
the whole body of English learning. He is the teacher of all
good-- pity, generosity, true courage, love. His bright wit is
cut out "into little stars."  His solid masses of knowledge are
meted out in morsels and proverbs, and thus distributed, there is
scarcely a corner of the English-speaking world to-day which he
does not illuminate, or a cottage which he does not enrich. His
bounty is like the sea, which, though often unacknowledged, is
everywhere felt. As his friend, Ben Jonson, wrote of him, "He
was not of an age but for all time."  He ever kept the highroad
of human life whereon all travel. He did not pick out by-paths
of feeling and sentiment. In his creations we have no moral
highwaymen, sentimental thieves, interesting villains, and amiable,
elegant adventuresses--no delicate entanglements of situation, in
which the grossest images are presented to the mind disguised
under the superficial attraction of style and sentiment. He
flattered no bad passion, disguised no vice in the garb of virtue,
trifled with no just and generous principle. While causing us to
laugh at folly, and shudder at crime, he still preserves our love
for our fellow-beings, and our reverence for ourselves.

Shakespeare was familiar with all beautiful forms and images, with
all that is sweet or majestic in the simple aspects of nature, of
that indestructible love of flowers and fragrance, and dews, and
clear waters--and soft airs and sounds, and bright skies and
woodland solitudes, and moon-light bowers, which are the material
elements of poetry,--and with that fine sense of their indefinable
relation to mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying
soul--and which, in the midst of his most busy and tragical scenes,
falls like gleams of sunshine on rocks and ruins--contrasting with
all that is rugged or repulsive, and reminding us of the existence
of purer and brighter elements.

These things considered, what wonder is it that the works of
Shakespeare, next to the Bible, are the most highly esteemed of
all the classics of English literature. "So extensively have the
characters of Shakespeare been drawn upon by artists, poets, and
writers of fiction," says an American author,--"So interwoven are
these characters in the great body of English literature, that to
be ignorant of the plot of these dramas is often a cause of
embarrassment."

But Shakespeare wrote for grown-up people, for men and women, and
in words that little folks cannot understand.

Hence this volume. To reproduce the entertaining stories contained
in the plays of Shakespeare, in a form so simple that children
can understand and enjoy them, was the object had in view by the
author of these Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare.

And that the youngest readers may not stumble in pronouncing any
unfamiliar names to be met with in the stories, the editor has
prepared and included in the volume a Pronouncing Vocabulary of
Difficult Names. To which is added a collection of Shakespearean
Quotations, classified in alphabetical order, illustrative of the
wisdom and genius of the world's greatest dramatist.

E. T. R.

A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

In the register of baptisms of the parish church of Stratford-upon-Avon,
a market town in Warwickshire, England, appears, under date of
April 26, 1564, the entry of the baptism of William, the son of
John Shakspeare. The entry is in Latin--"Gulielmus filius Johannis
Shakspeare."

The date of William Shakespeare's birth has usually been taken as
three days before his baptism, but there is certainly no evidence
of this fact.

The family name was variously spelled, the dramatist himself not
always spelling it in the same way. While in the baptismal record
the name is spelled "Shakspeare," in several authentic autographs
of the dramatist it reads "Shakspere," and in the first edition
of his works it is printed "Shakespeare."

Halliwell tells us, that there are not less than thirty-four ways
in which the various members of the Shakespeare family wrote the
name, and in the council-book of the corporation of Stratford,
where it is introduced one hundred and sixty-six times during the
period that the dramatist's father was a member of the municipal
body, there are fourteen different spellings. The modern
"Shakespeare" is not among them.

Shakespeare's father, while an alderman at Stratford, appears to
have been unable to write his name, but as at that time nine men
out of ten were content to make their mark for a signature, the
fact is not specially to his discredit.

The traditions and other sources of information about the occupation
of Shakespeare's father differ. He is described as a butcher, a
woolstapler, and a glover, and it is not impossible that he may
have been all of these simultaneously or at different times, or
that if he could not properly be called any one of them, the nature
of his occupation was such as to make it easy to understand how
the various traditions sprang up. He was a landed proprietor and
cultivator of his own land even before his marriage, and he received
with his wife, who was Mary Arden, daughter of a country gentleman,
the estate of Asbies, 56 acres in extent. William was the third
child. The two older than he were daughters, and both probably
died in infancy. After him was born three sons and a daughter.
For ten or twelve years at least, after Shakespeare's birth his
father continued to be in easy circumstances. In the year 1568
he was the high bailiff or chief magistrate of Stratford, and for
many years afterwards he held the position of alderman as he had
done for three years before. To the completion of his tenth year,
therefore, it is natural to suppose that William Shakespeare would
get the best education that Stratford could afford. The free
school of the town was open to all boys and like all the
grammar-schools of that time, was under the direction of men who,
as graduates of the universities, were qualified to diffuse that
sound scholarship which was once the boast of England. There is
no record of Shakespeare's having been at this school, but there
can be no rational doubt that he was educated there. His father
could not have procured for him a better education anywhere. To
those who have studied Shakespeare's works without being influenced
by the old traditional theory that he had received a very narrow
education, they abound with evidences that he must have been
solidly grounded in the learning, properly so called, was taught
in the grammar schools.

There are local associations connected with Stratford which could
not be without their influence in the formation of young Shakespeare's
mind. Within the range of such a boy's curiosity were the fine
old historic towns of Warwick and Coventry, the sumptuous palace
of Kenilworth, the grand monastic remains of Evesham. His own
Avon abounded with spots of singular beauty, quiet hamlets, solitary
woods. Nor was Stratford shut out from the general world, as many
country towns are. It was a great highway, and dealers with every
variety of merchandise resorted to its markets. The eyes of the
poet dramatist must always have been open for observation. But
nothing is known positively of Shakespeare from his birth to his
marriage to Anne Hathaway in 1582, and from that date nothing but
the birth of three children until we find him an actor in London
about 1589.

How long acting continued to be Shakespeare's sole profession we
have no means of knowing, but it is in the highest degree probable
that very soon after arriving in London he began that work of
adaptation by which he is known to have begun his literary career.
To improve and alter older plays not up to the standard that was
required at the time was a common practice even among the best
dramatists of the day, and Shakespeare's abilities would speedily
mark him out as eminently fitted for this kind of work. When the
alterations in plays originally composed by other writers became
very extensive, the work of adaptation would become in reality a
work of creation. And this is exactly what we have examples of
in a few of Shakespeare's early works, which are known to have
been founded on older plays.

It is unnecessary here to extol the published works of the world's
greatest dramatist. Criticism has been exhausted upon them, and
the finest minds of England, Germany, and America have devoted
their powers to an elucidation of their worth.

Shakespeare died at Stratford on the 23rd of April, 1616. His
father had died before him, in 1602, and his mother in 1608. His
wife survived him till August, 1623. His so Hamnet died in 1596
at the age of eleven years. His two daughters survived him, the
eldest of whom, Susanna, had, in 1607, married a physician of
Stratford, Dr. Hall. The only issue of this marriage, a daughter
named Elizabeth, born in 1608, married first Thomas Nasbe, and
afterwards Sir John Barnard, but left no children by either
marriage. Shakespeare's younger daughter, Judith, on the 10th of
February, 1616, married a Stratford gentleman named Thomas Quincy,
by whom she had three sons, all of whom died, however, without
issue. There are thus no direct descendants of Shakespeare.

Shakespeare's fellow-actors, fellow-dramatists, and those who knew
him in other ways, agree in expressing not only admiration of his
genius, but their respect and love for the man. Ben Jonson said,
"I love the man, and do honor his memory, on this side idolatry,
as much as any. He was indeed honest, and of an open and free
nature."  He was buried on the second day after his death, on the
north side of the chancel of Stratford church. Over his grave
there is a flat stone with this inscription, said to have been
written by himself:

    Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare
    To digg the dust encloased heare:
    Blest be ye man yt spares these stones,
    And curst be he yt moves my bones.

CONTENTS                                       PAGE

PREFACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . . . 7
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM . . . . . . . . . . . 19
THE TEMPEST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
AS YOU LIKE IT  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
THE WINTER'S TALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
KING LEAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
TWELFTH NIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING  . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
ROMEO AND JULIET  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
PERICLES  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
HAMLET  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
CYMBELINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE  . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
TIMON OF ATHENS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
OTHELLO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW . . . . . . . . . . . . 228
MEASURE FOR MEASURE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . . . . . . . . . . . . 255
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . . . . . . . . . . . 272
PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF NAMES . . . . . . . . 286
QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . . 288

ILLUSTRATIONS                                  PAGE

TITANIA: THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES . . . . . . . 20
THE QUARREL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
HELENA IN THE WOOD  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
TITANIA PLACED UNDER A SPELL  . . . . . . . . . 30
TITANIA AWAKES  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
PRINCE FERDINAND IN THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . 36
PRINCE FERDINAND SEES MIRANDA . . . . . . . . . 39
PLAYING CHESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
ROSALIND AND CELIA  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
ROSALIND GIVES ORLANDO A CHAIN  . . . . . . . . 47
GANYMEDE FAINTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
LEFT ON THE SEA-COAST . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
THE KING WOULD NOT LOOK . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
LEONTES RECEIVING FLORIZEL AND PERDITA  . . . . 60
FLORIZEL AND PERDITA TALKING  . . . . . . . . . 62
HERMOINE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
CORDELIA AND THE KING OF FRANCE . . . . . . . . 67
GONERIL AND REGAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
CORDELIA IN PRISON  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
VIOLA AND THE CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
VIOLA AS "CESARIO" MEETS OLIVIA . . . . . . . . 76
"YOU TOO HAVE BEEN IN LOVE" . . . . . . . . . . 78
CLAUDIA AND HERO  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
HERO AND URSULA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
BENEDICK  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
FRIAR FRANCIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
ROMEO AND TYBALT FIGHT  . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
ROMEO DISCOVERS JULIET  . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
MARRIAGE OF ROMEO AND JULIET  . . . . . . . . . 111
THE NURSE THINKS JULIET DEAD  . . . . . . . . . 115
ROMEO ENTERING THE TOMB . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
PERICLES WINS IN THE TOURNAMENT . . . . . . . . 122
PERICLES AND MARINA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
THE KING'S GHOST APPEARS  . . . . . . . . . . . 131
POLONIUS KILLED BY HAMLET . . . . . . . . . . . 135
DROWNING OF OPHELIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
IACHIMO AND IMOGEN  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
IACHIMO IN THE TRUNK  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
IMOGEN STUPEFIED  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
IMOGEN AND LEONATUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
THE THREE WITCHES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
FROM "MACBETH"  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
LADY MACBETH  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
KING AND QUEEN MACBETH  . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
MACBETH AND MACDUFF FIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . 163
ANTIPHOLUS AND DROMIO . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
LUCIANA AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE  . . . . . . 175
THE GOLDSMITH AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE . . . 178
AEMILIA  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO  . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
ANTONIO SIGNS THE BOND . . . . . . . . . . . . 188
JESSICA LEAVING HOME . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
BASSANIO PARTS WITH THE RING . . . . . . . . . 192
POET READING TO TIMON  . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
PAINTER SHOWING TIMON A PICTURE  . . . . . . . 197
"NOTHING BUT AN EMPTY BOX" . . . . . . . . . . 200
TIMON GROWS SULLEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204
OTHELLO TELLING DESDEMONA HIS ADVENTURES . . . 211
OTHELLO  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213
THE DRINK OF WINE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218
CASSIO GIVES THE HANDKERCHIEF  . . . . . . . . 222
DESDEMONA WEEPING  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
THE MUSIC MASTER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
KATHARINE BOXES THE SERVANT'S EARS . . . . . . 232
PETRUCHIO FINDS FAULT WITH THE SUPPER  . . . . 235
THE DUKE IN THE FRIAR'S DRESS  . . . . . . . . 244
ISABELLA PLEADS WITH ANGELO  . . . . . . . . . 247
"YOUR FRIAR IS NOW YOUR PRINCE"  . . . . . . . 253
VALENTINE WRITES A LETTER FOR SILVIA . . . . . 258
SILVIA READING THE LETTER  . . . . . . . . . . 259
THE SERENADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
ONE OF THE OUTLAWS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
HELENA AND BERTRAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
HELENA AND THE KING  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
READING BERTRAM'S LETTER . . . . . . . . . . . 281
HELENA AND THE WIDOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284

LIST OF FOUR-COLOR PLATES                      PAGE

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE  . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece
TITANIA AND THE CLOWN  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
FERDINAND AND MIRANDA  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
PRINCE FLORIZEL AND PERDITA  . . . . . . . . . . 54
ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
CHOOSING THE CASKET  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
PETRUCHIO AND KATHERINE  . . . . . . . . . . . 228

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Hermia and Lysander were lovers; but Hermia's father wished her to
marry another man, named Demetrius.

Now, in Athens, where they lived, there was a wicked law, by which
any girl who refused to marry according to her father's wishes,
might be put to death. Hermia's father was so angry with her for
refusing to do as he wished, that he actually brought her before
the Duke of Athens to ask that she might be killed, if she still
refused to obey him. The Duke gave her four days to think about
it, and, at the end of that time, if she still refused to marry
Demetrius, she would have to die.

Lysander of course was nearly mad with grief, and the best thing
to do seemed to him for Hermia to run away to his aunt's house at
a place beyond the reach of that cruel law; and there he would
come to her and marry her. But before she started, she told her
friend, Helena, what she was going to do.

Helena had been Demetrius' sweetheart long before his marriage with
Hermia had been thought of, and being very silly, like all jealous
people, she could not see that it was not poor Hermia's fault that
Demetrius wished to marry her instead of his own lady, Helena.
She knew that if she told Demetrius that Hermia was going, as she
was, to the wood outside Athens, he would follow her, "and I can
follow him, and at least I shall see him," she said to herself.
So she went to him, and betrayed her friend's secret.

Now this wood where Lysander was to meet Hermia, and where the
other two had decided to follow them, was full of fairies, as most
woods are, if one only had the eyes to see them, and in this wood
on this night were the King and Queen of the fairies, Oberon and
Titania. Now fairies are very wise people, but now and then they
can be quite as foolish as mortal folk. Oberon and Titania, who
might have been as happy as the days were long, had thrown away
all their joy in a foolish quarrel. They never met without saying
disagreeable things to each other, and scolded each other so
dreadfully that all their little fairy followers, for fear, would
creep into acorn cups and hide them there.

So, instead of keeping one happy Court and dancing all night through
in the moonlight as is fairies' use, the King with his attendants
wandered through one part of the wood, while the Queen with hers
kept state in another. And the cause of all this trouble was a
little Indian boy whom Titania had taken to be one of her followers.
Oberon wanted the child to follow him and be one of his fairy
knights; but the Queen would not give him up.

On this night, in a mossy moonlit glade, the King and Queen of the
fairies met.

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the King.

"What! jealous, Oberon?" answered the Queen. "You spoil everything
with your quarreling. Come, fairies, let us leave him. I am not
friends with him now."

"It rests with you to make up the quarrel," said the King.

"Give me that little Indian boy, and I will again be your humble
servant and suitor."

"Set your mind at rest," said the Queen. "Your whole fairy kingdom
buys not that boy from me. Come, fairies."

And she and her train rode off down the moonbeams.

"Well, go your ways," said Oberon. "But I'll be even with you
before you leave this wood."

Then Oberon called his favorite fairy, Puck. Puck was the spirit
of mischief. He used to slip into the dairies and take the cream
away, and get into the churn so that the butter would not come,
and turn the beer sour, and lead people out of their way on dark
nights and then laugh at them, and tumble people's stools from
under them when they were going to sit down, and upset their hot
ale over their chins when they were going to drink.

"Now," said Oberon to this little sprite, "fetch me the flower
called Love-in-idleness. The juice of that little purple flower
laid on the eyes of those who sleep will make them, when they
wake, to love the first thing they see. I will put some of the
juice of that flower on my Titania's eyes, and when she wakes she
will love the first thing she sees, were it lion, bear, or wolf,
or bull, or meddling monkey, or a busy ape."

While Puck was gone, Demetrius passed through the glade followed
by poor Helena, and still she told him how she loved him and
reminded him of all his promises, and still he told her that he
did not and could not love her, and that his promises were nothing.
Oberon was sorry for poor Helena, and when Puck returned with
the flower, he bade him follow Demetrius and put some of the juice
on his eyes, so that he might love Helena when he woke and looked
on her, as much as she loved him. So Puck set off, and wandering
through the wood found, not Demetrius, but Lysander, on whose eyes
he put the juice; but when Lysander woke, he saw not his own
Hermia, but Helena, who was walking through the wood looking for
the cruel Demetrius; and directly lie saw her he loved her and
left his own lady, under the spell of the purple flower.

When Hermia woke she found Lysander gone, and wandered about the
wood trying to find him. Puck went back and told Oberon what lie
had done, and Oberon soon found that he had made a mistake, and
set about looking for Demetrius, and having found him, put some
of the juice on his eyes. And the first thing Demetrius saw when
he woke was also Helena. So now Demetrius and Lysander were both
following her through the wood, and it was Hermia's turn to follow
her lover as Helena had done before. The end of it was that Helena
and Hermia began to quarrel, and Demetrius and Lysander went off
to fight. Oberon was very sorry to see his kind scheme to help
these lovers turn out so badly. So he said to Puck--

"These two young men are going to fight. You must overhang the
night with drooping fog, and lead them so astray, that one will
never find the other. When they are tired out, they will fall
asleep. Then drop this other herb on Lysander's eyes. That will
give him his old sight and his old love. Then each man will have
the lady who loves him, and they will all think that this has been
only a Midsummer Night's Dream. Then when this is done, all will
be well with them."

So Puck went and did as he was told, and when the two had fallen
asleep without meeting each other, Puck poured the juice on
Lysander's eyes, and said:--

       "When thou wakest,
        Thou takest
        True delight
        In the sight
        Of thy former lady's eye:
        Jack shall have Jill;
        Nought shall go ill."

Meanwhile Oberon found Titania asleep on a bank where grew wild
thyme, oxlips, and violets, and woodbine, musk-roses and eglantine.
There Titania always slept a part of the night, wrapped in the
enameled skin of a snake. Oberon stooped over her and laid the
juice on her eyes, saying:--

       "What thou seest when thou wake,
        Do it for thy true love take."

Now, it happened that when Titania woke the first thing she saw
was a stupid clown, one of a party of players who had come out
into the wood to rehearse their play. This clown had met with
Puck, who had clapped an ass's head on his shoulders so that it
looked as if it grew there. Directly Titania woke and saw this
dreadful monster, she said, "What angel is this? Are you as wise
as you are beautiful?"

"If I am wise enough to find my way out of this wood, that's enough
for me," said the foolish clown.

"Do not desire to go out of the wood," said Titania. The spell of
the love-juice was on her, and to her the clown seemed the most
beautiful and delightful creature on all the earth. "I love you,"
she went on. "Come with me, and I will give you fairies to attend
on you."

So she called four fairies, whose names were Peaseblossom, Cobweb,
Moth, and Mustardseed.

"You must attend this gentleman," said the Queen. "Feed him with
apricots and dewberries, purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.
Steal honey-bags for him from the bumble-bees, and with the wings
of painted butterflies fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes."

"I will," said one of the fairies, and all the others said, "I
will."

"Now, sit down with me," said the Queen to the clown, "and let me
stroke your dear cheeks, and stick musk-roses in your smooth,
sleek head, and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy."

"Where's Peaseblossom?" asked the clown with the ass's head. He
did not care much about the Queen's affection, but he was very
proud of having fairies to wait on him. "Ready," said
Peaseblossom.

"Scratch my head, Peaseblossom," said the clown. "Where's Cobweb?"
"Ready," said Cobweb.

"Kill me," said the clown, "the red bumble-bee on the top of the
thistle yonder, and bring me the honey-bag. Where's
Mustardseed?"

"Ready," said Mustardseed.

"Oh, I want nothing," said the clown. "Only just help Cobweb to
scratch. I must go to the barber's, for methinks I am marvelous
hairy about the face."

"Would you like anything to eat?" said the fairy Queen.

"I should like some good dry oats," said the clown--for his donkey's
head made him desire donkey's food--"and some hay to follow."

"Shall some of my fairies fetch you new nuts from the squirrel's
house?" asked the Queen.

"I'd rather have a handful or two of good dried peas," said the
clown. "But please don't let any of your people disturb me; I am
going to sleep."

Then said the Queen, "And I will wind thee in my arms."

And so when Oberon came along he found his beautiful Queen lavishing
kisses and endearments on a clown with a donkey's head.

And before he released her from the enchantment, he persuaded her
to give him the little Indian boy he so much desired to have.
Then he took pity on her, and threw some juice of the disenchanting
flower on her pretty eyes; and then in a moment she saw plainly
the donkey-headed clown she had been loving, and knew how foolish
she had been.

Oberon took off the ass's head from the clown, and left him to
finish his sleep with his own silly head lying on the thyme and
violets.

Thus all was made plain and straight again. Oberon and Titania
loved each other more than ever. Demetrius thought of no one but
Helena, and Helena had never had any thought of anyone but
Demetrius.

As for Hermia and Lysander, they were as loving a couple as you
could meet in a day's march, even through a fairy wood.

So the four mortal lovers went back to Athens and were married;
and the fairy King and Queen live happily together in that very
wood at this very day.

THE TEMPEST

Prospero, the Duke of Milan, was a learned and studious man, who
lived among his books, leaving the management of his dukedom to
his brother Antonio, in whom indeed he had complete trust. But
that trust was ill-rewarded, for Antonio wanted to wear the duke's
crown himself, and, to gain his ends, would have killed his brother
but for the love the people bore him. However, with the help of
Prospero's great enemy, Alonso, King of Naples, he managed to get
into his hands the dukedom with all its honor, power, and riches.
For they took Prospero to sea, and when they were far away from
land, forced him into a little boat with no tackle, mast, or sail.
In their cruelty and hatred they put his little daughter, Miranda
(not yet three years old), into the boat with him, and sailed
away, leaving them to their fate.

But one among the courtiers with Antonio was true to his rightful
master, Prospero. To save the duke from his enemies was impossible,
but much could be done to remind him of a subject's love. So this
worthy lord, whose name was Gonzalo, secretly placed in the boat
some fresh water, provisions, and clothes, and what Prospero valued
most of all, some of his precious books.

The boat was cast on an island, and Prospero and his little one
landed in safety. Now this island was enchanted, and for years
had lain under the spell of a fell witch, Sycorax, who had imprisoned
in the trunks of trees all the good spirits she found there. She
died shortly before Prospero was cast on those shores, but the
spirits, of whom Ariel was the chief, still remained in their
prisons.

Prospero was a great magician, for he had devoted himself almost
entirely to the study of magic during the years in which he allowed
his brother to manage the affairs of Milan. By his art he set
free the imprisoned spirits, yet kept them obedient to his will,
and they were more truly his subjects than his people in Milan
had been. For he treated them kindly as long as they did his
bidding, and he exercised his power over them wisely and well.
One creature alone he found it necessary to treat with harshness:
this was Caliban, the son of the wicked old witch, a hideous,
deformed monster, horrible to look on, and vicious and brutal in
all his habits.

When Miranda was grown up into a maiden, sweet and fair to see, it
chanced that Antonio and Alonso, with Sebastian, his brother, and
Ferdinand, his son, were at sea together with old Gonzalo, and
their ship came near Prospero's island. Prospero, knowing they
were there, raised by his art a great storm, so that even the
sailors on board gave themselves up for lost; and first among them
all Prince Ferdinand leaped into the sea, and, as his father
thought in his grief, was drowned. But Ariel brought him safe
ashore; and all the rest of the crew, although they were washed
overboard, were landed unhurt in different parts of the island,
and the good ship herself, which they all thought had been wrecked,
lay at anchor in the harbor whither Ariel had brought her. Such
wonders could Prospero and his spirits perform.

While yet the tempest was raging, Prospero showed his daughter the
brave ship laboring in the trough of the sea, and told her that
it was filled with living human beings like themselves. She, in
pity of their lives, prayed him who had raised this storm to quell
it. Then her father bade her to have no fear, for he intended to
save every one of them.

Then, for the first time, he told her the story of his life and
hers, and that he had caused this storm to rise in order that his
enemies, Antonio and Alonso, who were on board, might be delivered
into his hands.

When he had made an end of his story he charmed her into sleep,
for Ariel was at hand, and he had work for him to do. Ariel, who
longed for his complete freedom, grumbled to be kept in drudgery,
but on being threateningly reminded of all the sufferings he had
undergone when Sycorax ruled in the land, and of the debt of
gratitude he owed to the master who had made those sufferings to
end, he ceased to complain, and promised faithfully to do whatever
Prospero might command.

"Do so," said Prospero, "and in two days I will discharge thee."

Then he bade Ariel take the form of a water nymph and sent him in
search of the young prince. And Ariel, invisible to Ferdinand,
hovered near him, singing the while--

   "Come unto these yellow sands
      And then take hands:
    Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd
      (The wild waves whist),
    Foot it featly here and there;
    And, sweet sprites, the burden bear!"

And Ferdinand followed the magic singing, as the song changed to
a solemn air, and the words brought grief to his heart, and tears
to his eyes, for thus they ran--

   "Full fathom five thy father lies;
      Of his bones are coral made.
    Those are pearls that were his eyes,
      Nothing of him that doth fade,
    But doth suffer a sea-change
    Into something rich and strange.
    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell.
    Hark! now I hear them,-- ding dong bell!"

And so singing, Ariel led the spell-bound prince into the presence
of Prospero and Miranda. Then, behold! all happened as Prospero
desired. For Miranda, who had never, since she could first
remember, seen any human being save her father, looked on the
youthful prince with reverence in her eyes, and love in her secret
heart.

"I might call him," she said, "a thing divine, for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble!"

And Ferdinand, beholding her beauty with wonder and delight,
exclaimed--

"Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend!"

Nor did he attempt to hide the passion which she inspired in him,
for scarcely had they exchanged half a dozen sentences, before he
vowed to make her his queen if she were willing. But Prospero,
though secretly delighted, pretended wrath.

"You come here as a spy," he said to Ferdinand. "I will manacle
your neck and feet together, and you shall feed on fresh water
mussels, withered roots and husk, and have sea-water to drink.
Follow."

"No," said Ferdinand, and drew his sword. But on the instant
Prospero charmed him so that he stood there like a statue, still
as stone; and Miranda in terror prayed her father to have mercy
on her lover. But he harshly refused her, and made Ferdinand
follow him to his cell. There he set the Prince to work, making
him remove thousands of heavy logs of timber and pile them up;
and Ferdinand patiently obeyed, and thought his toil all too well
repaid by the sympathy of the sweet Miranda.

She in very pity would have helped him in his hard work, but he
would not let her, yet he could not keep from her the secret of
his love, and she, hearing it, rejoiced and promised to be his
wife.

Then Prospero released him from his servitude, and glad at heart,
he gave his consent to their marriage.

"Take her," he said, "she is thine own."

In the meantime, Antonio and Sebastian in another part of the island
were plotting the murder of Alonso, the King of Naples, for
Ferdinand being dead, as they thought, Sebastian would succeed to
the throne on Alonso's death. And they would have carried out
their wicked purpose while their victim was asleep, but that Ariel
woke him in good time.

Many tricks did Ariel play them. Once he set a banquet before
them, and just as they were going to fall to, he appeared to them
amid thunder and lightning in the form of a harpy, and immediately
the banquet disappeared. Then Ariel upbraided them with their
sins and vanished too.

Prospero by his enchantments drew them all to the grove without
his cell, where they waited, trembling and afraid, and now at last
bitterly repenting them of their sins.

Prospero determined to make one last use of his magic power, "And
then," said he, "I'll break my staff and deeper than did ever
plummet sound I'll drown my book."

So he made heavenly music to sound in the air, and appeared to them
in his proper shape as the Duke of Milan. Because they repented,
he forgave them and told them the story of his life since they
had cruelly committed him and his baby daughter to the mercy of
wind and waves. Alonso, who seemed sorriest of them all for his
past crimes, lamented the loss of his heir. But Prospero drew
back a curtain and showed them Ferdinand and Miranda playing at
chess. Great was Alonso's joy to greet his loved son again, and
when he heard that the fair maid with whom Ferdinand was playing
was Prospero's daughter, and that the young folks had plighted
their troth, he said--

"Give me your hands, let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
that doth not wish you joy."

So all ended happily. The ship was safe in the harbor, and next
day they all set sail for Naples, where Ferdinand and Miranda were
to be married. Ariel gave them calm seas and auspicious gales;
and many were the rejoicings at the wedding.

Then Prospero, after many years of absence, went back to his own
dukedom, where he was welcomed with great joy by his faithful
subjects. He practiced the arts of magic no more, but his life
was happy, and not only because he had found his own again, but
chiefly because, when his bitterest foes who had done him deadly
wrong lay at his mercy, he took no vengeance on them, but nobly
forgave them.

As for Ariel, Prospero made him free as air, so that he could wander
where he would, and sing with a light heart his sweet song--

   "Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
    In a cowslip's bell I lie;
    There I couch when owls do cry.
    On the bat's back I do fly
    After summer, merrily:
    Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
    Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

AS YOU LIKE IT

There was once a wicked Duke named Frederick, who took the dukedom
that should have belonged to his brother, sending him into exile.
His brother went into the Forest of Arden, where he lived the
life of a bold forester, as Robin Hood did in Sherwood Forest in
merry England.

The banished Duke's daughter, Rosalind, remained with Celia,
Frederick's daughter, and the two loved each other more than most
sisters. One day there was a wrestling match at Court, and Rosalind
and Celia went to see it. Charles, a celebrated wrestler, was
there, who had killed many men in contests of this kind. Orlando,
the young man he was to wrestle with, was so slender and youthful,
that Rosalind and Celia thought he would surely be killed, as
others had been; so they spoke to him, and asked him not to attempt
so dangerous an adventure; but the only effect of their words was
to make him wish more to come off well in the encounter, so as to
win praise from such sweet ladies.

Orlando, like Rosalind's father, was being kept out of his inheritance
by his brother, and was so sad at his brother's unkindness that,
until he saw Rosalind, he did not care much whether he lived or
died. But now the sight of the fair Rosalind gave him strength
and courage, so that he did marvelously, and at last, threw Charles
to such a tune, that the wrestler had to be carried off the ground.
Duke Frederick was pleased with his courage, and asked his name.

"My name is Orlando, and I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
Boys," said the young man.

Now Sir Rowland de Boys, when he was alive, had been a good friend
to the banished Duke, so that Frederick heard with regret whose
son Orlando was, and would not befriend him. But Rosalind was
delighted to hear that this handsome young stranger was the son
of her father's old friend, and as they were going away, she turned
back more than once to say another kind word to the brave young
man.

"Gentleman," she said, giving him a chain from her neck, "wear this
for me. I could give more, but that my hand lacks means."

Rosalind and Celia, when they were alone, began to talk about the
handsome wrestler, and Rosalind confessed that she loved him at
first sight.

"Come, come," said Celia, "wrestle with thy affections."

"Oh," answered Rosalind, "they take the part of a better wrestler
than myself. Look, here comes the Duke."

"With his eyes full of anger," said Celia.

"You must leave the Court at once," he said to Rosalind. "Why?"
she asked.

"Never mind why," answered the Duke, "you are banished. If within
ten days you are found within twenty miles of my Court, you die."

So Rosalind set out to seek her father, the banished Duke, in the
Forest of Arden. Celia loved her too much to let her go alone,
and as it was rather a dangerous journey, Rosalind, being the
taller, dressed up as a young countryman, and her cousin as a
country girl, and Rosalind said that she would be called Ganymede,
and Celia, Aliena. They were very tired when at last they came
to the Forest of Arden, and as they were sitting on the grass a
countryman passed that way, and Ganymede asked him if he could
get them food. He did so, and told them that a shepherd's flocks
and house were to be sold. They bought these and settled down as
shepherd and shepherdess in the forest.

In the meantime, Oliver having sought to take his brother Orlando's
life, Orlando also wandered into the forest, and there met with
the rightful Duke, and being kindly received, stayed with him.
Now, Orlando could think of nothing but Rosalind, and he went
about the forest carving her name on trees, and writing love
sonnets and hanging them on the bushes, and there Rosalind and
Celia found them. One day Orlando met them, but he did not know
Rosalind in her boy's clothes, though he liked the pretty shepherd
youth, because he fancied a likeness in him to her he loved.

"There is a foolish lover," said Rosalind, "who haunts these woods
and hangs sonnets on the trees. If I could find him, I would soon
cure him of his folly."

Orlando confessed that he was the foolish lover, and Rosalind
said--"If you will come and see me every day, I will pretend to
be Rosalind, and I will take her part, and be wayward and contrary,
as is the way of women, till I make you ashamed of your folly in
loving her."

And so every day he went to her house, and took a pleasure in saying
to her all the pretty things he would have said to Rosalind; and
she had the fine and secret joy of knowing that all his love-words
came to the right ears. Thus many days passed pleasantly away.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man
asleep on the ground, and that there was a lioness crouching near,
waiting for the man who was asleep to wake: for they say that
lions will not prey on anything that is dead or sleeping. Then
Orlando looked at the man, and saw that it was his wicked brother,
Oliver, who had tried to take his life. He fought with the lioness
and killed her, and saved his brother's life.

While Orlando was fighting the lioness, Oliver woke to see his
brother, whom he had treated so badly, saving him from a wild
beast at the risk of his own life. This made him repent of his
wickedness, and he begged Orlando's pardon, and from thenceforth
they were dear brothers. The lioness had wounded Orlando's arm
so much, that he could not go on to see the shepherd, so he sent
his brother to ask Ganymede to come to him.

Oliver went and told the whole story to Ganymede and Aliena, and
Aliena was so charmed with his manly way of confessing his faults,
that she fell in love with him at once. But when Ganymede heard
of the danger Orlando had been in she fainted; and when she came
to herself, said truly enough, "I should have been a woman by
right."

Oliver went back to his brother and told him all this, saying, "I
love Aliena so well that I will give up my estates to you and
marry her, and live here as a shepherd."

"Let your wedding be to-morrow," said Orlando, "and I will ask the
Duke and his friends."

When Orlando told Ganymede how his brother was to be married on
the morrow, he added: "Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into
happiness through another man's eyes."

Then answered Rosalind, still in Ganymede's dress and speaking with
his voic--"If you do love Rosalind so near the heart, then when
your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her."

Now the next day the Duke and his followers, and Orlando, and
Oliver, and Aliena, were all gathered together for the wedding.

Then Ganymede came in and said to the Duke, "If I bring in your
daughter Rosalind, will you give her to Orlando here?"  "That I
would," said the Duke, "if I had all kingdoms to give with her."

"And you say you will have her when I bring her?" she said to
Orlando. "That would I," he answered, "were I king of all
kingdoms."

Then Rosalind and Celia went out, and Rosalind put on her pretty
woman's clothes again, and after a while came back.

She turned to her father--"I give myself to you, for I am yours."
"If there be truth in sight," he said, "you are my daughter."

Then she said to Orlando, "I give myself to you, for I am yours."
"If there be truth in sight," he said, "you are my Rosalind."

"I will have no father if you be not he," she said to the Duke,
and to Orlando, "I will have no husband if you be not he."

So Orlando and Rosalind were married, and Oliver and Celia, and
they lived happy ever after, returning with the Duke to the kingdom.
For Frederick had been shown by a holy hermit the wickedness of
his ways, and so gave back the dukedom of his brother, and himself
went into a monastery to pray for forgiveness.

The wedding was a merry one, in the mossy glades of the forest.
A shepherd and shepherdess who had been friends with Rosalind,
when she was herself disguised as a shepherd, were married on the
same day, and all with such pretty feastings and merrymakings as
could be nowhere within four walls, but only in the beautiful
green wood.

THE WINTER'S TALE

Leontes was the King of Sicily, and his dearest friend was Polixenes,
King of Bohemia. They had been brought up together, and only
separated when they reached man's estate and each had to go and
rule over his kingdom. After many years, when each was married
and had a son, Polixenes came to stay with Leontes in Sicily.

Leontes was a violent-tempered man and rather silly, and he took
it into his stupid head that his wife, Hermione, liked Polixenes
better than she did him, her own husband. When once he had got
this into his head, nothing could put it out; and he ordered one
of his lords, Camillo, to put a poison in Polixenes' wine. Camillo
tried to dissuade him from this wicked action, but finding he was
not to be moved, pretended to consent. He then told Polixenes
what was proposed against him, and they fled from the Court of
Sicily that night, and returned to Bohemia, where Camillo lived
on as Polixenes' friend and counselor.

Leontes threw the Queen into prison; and her son, the heir to the
throne, died of sorrow to see his mother so unjustly and cruelly
treated.

While the Queen was in prison she had a little baby, and a friend
of hers, named Paulina, had the baby dressed in its best, and took
it to show the King, thinking that the sight of his helpless little
daughter would soften his heart towards his dear Queen, who had
never done him any wrong, and who loved him a great deal more than
he deserved; but the King would not look at the baby, and ordered
Paulina's husband to take it away in a ship, and leave it in the
most desert and dreadful place he could find, which Paulina's
husband, very much against his will, was obliged to do.

Then the poor Queen was brought up to be tried for treason in
preferring Polixenes to her King; but really she had never thought
of anyone except Leontes, her husband. Leontes had sent some
messengers to ask the god, Apollo, whether he was not right in
his cruel thoughts of the Queen. But he had not patience to wait
till they came back, and so it happened that they arrived in the
middle of the trial. The Oracle said--

"Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject,
Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the King shall live without an heir,
if that which is lost be not found."

Then a man came and told them that the little Prince was dead.
The poor Queen, hearing this, fell down in a fit; and then the
King saw how wicked and wrong he had been. He ordered Paulina
and the ladies who were with the Queen to take her away, and try
to restore her. But Paulina came back in a few moments, and told
the King that Hermione was dead.

Now Leontes' eyes were at last opened to his folly. His Queen was
dead, and the little daughter who might have been a comfort to
him he had sent away to be the prey of wolves and kites. Life
had nothing left for him now. He gave himself up to his grief,
and passed in any sad years in prayer and remorse.

The baby Princess was left on the seacoast of Bohemia, the very
kingdom where Polixenes reigned. Paulina's husband never went
home to tell Leontes where he had left the baby; for as he was
going back to the ship, he met a bear and was torn to pieces. So
there was an end of him.

But the poor deserted little baby was found by a shepherd. She
was richly dressed, and had with her some jewels, and a paper was
pinned to her cloak, saying that her name was Perdita, and that
she came of noble parents.

The shepherd, being a kind-hearted man, took home the little baby
to his wife, and they brought it up as their own child. She had
no more teaching than a shepherd's child generally has, but she
inherited from her royal mother many graces and charms, so that
she was quite different from the other maidens in the village
where she lived.

One day Prince Florizel, the son of the good King of Bohemia, was
bunting near the shepherd's house and saw Perdita, now grown up
to a charming woman. He made friends with the shepherd, not
telling him that he was the Prince, but saying that his name was
Doricles, and that he was a private gentleman; and then, being
deeply in love with the pretty Perdita, he came almost daily to
see her.

The King could not understand what it was that took his son nearly
every day from home; so he set people to watch him, and then found
out that the heir of the King of Bohemia was in love with Perdita,
the pretty shepherd girl. Polixenes, wishing to see whether this
was true, disguised himself, and went with the faithful Camillo,
in disguise too, to the old shepherd's house. They arrived at
the feast of sheep-shearing, and, though strangers, they were made
very welcome. There was dancing going on, and a peddler was
selling ribbons and laces and gloves, which the young men bought
for their sweethearts.

Florizel and Perdita, however, were taking no part in this gay
scene, but sat quietly together talking. The King noticed the
charming manners and great beauty of Perdita, never guessing that
she was the daughter of his old friend, Leontes. He said to
Camillo--

"This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green
sward. Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater
than herself--too noble for this place."

And Camillo answered, "In truth she is the Queen of curds and
cream."

But when Florizel, who did not recognize his father, called upon
the strangers to witness his betrothal with the pretty shepherdess,
the King made himself known and forbade the marriage, adding that
if ever she saw Florizel again, he would kill her and her old
father, the shepherd; and with that he left them. But Camillo
remained behind, for he was charmed with Perdita, and wished to
befriend her.

Camillo had long known how sorry Leontes was for that foolish
madness of his, and he longed to go iback to Sicily to see his
old master. He now proposed that the young people should go there
and claim the protection of Leontes. So they went, and the shepherd
went with them, taking Perdita's jewels, her baby clothes, and
the paper he had found pinned to her cloak.

Leontes received them with great kindness. He was very polite to
Prince Florizel, but all his looks were for Perdita. He saw how
much she was like the Queen Hermione, and said again and again--

"Such a sweet creature my daughter might have been, if I had not
cruelly sent her from me."

When the old shepherd heard that the King had lost a baby daughter,
who had been left upon the coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that
Perdita, the child he had reared, must be the King's daughter,
and when he told his tale and showed the jewels and the paper,
the King perceived that Perdita was indeed his long-lost child.
He welcomed her with joy, and rewarded the good shepherd.

Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his marriage with
Perdita, but when he found that she was the daughter of his old
friend, he was only too glad to give his consent.

Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remembered how his fair Queen,
who should have been at his side to share his joy in his daughter's
happiness, was dead through his unkindness, and he could say
nothing for a long time but--

"Oh, thy mother! thy mother!" and ask forgiveness of the King of
Bohemia, and then kiss his daughter again, and then the Prince
Florizel, and then thank the old shepherd for all his goodness.

Then Paulina, who had been high all these years in the King's favor,
because of her kindness to the dead Queen Hermione, said--"I have
a statue made in the likeness of the dead Queen, a piece many
years in doing, and performed by the rare Italian master, Giulio
Romano. I keep it in a private house apart, and there, ever since
you lost your Queen, I have gone twice or thrice a day. Will it
please your Majesty to go and see the statue?"

So Leontes and Polixenes, and Florizel and Perdita, with Camillo
and their attendants, went to Paulina's house where there was a
heavy purple curtain screening off an alcove; and Paulina, with
her hand on the curtain, said--

"She was peerless when she was alive, and I do believe that her
dead likeness excels whatever yet you have looked upon, or that
the hand of man hath done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart.
But here it is--behold, and say, 'tis well."

And with that she drew back the curtain and showed them the statue.
The King gazed and gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead
wife, but said nothing.

"I like your silence," said Paulina; "it the more shows off your
wonder. But speak, is it not like her?"

"It is almost herself," said the King, "and yet, Paulina, Hermione
was not so much wrinkled, nothing so old as this seems."

"Oh, not by much," said Polixenes.

"Al," said Paulina, "that is the cleverness of the carver, who
shows her to us as she would have been had she lived till now."

And still Leontes looked at the statue and could not take his eyes
away.

"If I had known," said Paulina, "that this poor image would so have
stirred your grief, and love, I would not have shown it to you."

But he only answered, "Do not draw the curtain."

"No, you must not look any longer," said Paulina, "or you will
think it moves."

"Let be! let be!" said the King. "Would you not think it
breathed?"

"I will draw the curtain," said Paulina; " you will think it lives
presently."

"Ah, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, "make me to think so twenty
years together."

"If you can bear it," said Paulina, "I can make the statue move,
make it come down and take you by the hand. Only you would think
it was by wicked magic."

"Whatever you can make her do, I am content to look on," said the
King.

And then, all folks there admiring and beholding, the statue moved
from its pedestal, and came down the steps and put its arms round
the King's neck, and he held her face and kissed her many times,
for this was no statue, but the real living Queen Hermione herself.
She had lived hidden, by Paulina's kindness, all these years,
and would not discover herself to her husband, though she knew he
had repented, because she could not quite forgive him till she
knew what had become of her little baby.

Now that Perdita was found, she forgave her husband everything,
and it was like a new and beautiful marriage to them, to be together
once more.

Florizel and Perdita were married and lived long and happily.

To Leontes his many years of suffering were well paid for in the
moment when, after long grief and pain, he felt the arms of his
true love around him once again.

KING LEAR

King Lear was old and tired. He was aweary of the business of his
kingdom, and wished only to end his days quietly near his three
daughters. Two of his daughters were married to the Dukes of
Albany and Cornwall; and the Duke of Burgundy and the King of
France were both suitors for the hand of Cordelia, his youngest
daughter.

Lear called his three daughters together, and told them that he
proposed to divide his kingdom between them. "But first," said
he, "I should like to know much you love me."

Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, and did not love her
father at all, said she loved him more than words could say; she
loved him dearer than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life,
grace, health, beauty, and honor.

"I love you as much as my sister and more," professed Regan, "since
I care for nothing but my father's love."

Lear was very much pleased with Regan's professions, and turned to
his youngest daughter, Cordelia. "Now, our joy, though last not
least," he said, "the best part of my kingdom have I kept for you.
What can you say?"

"Nothing, my lord," answered Cordelia.

"Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again," said the King.

And Cordelia answered, "I love your Majesty according to my duty--no
more, no less."

And this she said, because she was disgusted with the way in which
her sisters professed love, when really they had not even a right
sense of duty to their old father.

"I am your daughter," she went on, "and you have brought me up and
loved me, and I return you those duties back as are right and fit,
obey you, love you, and most honor you."

Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her to make more extravagant
professions of love than her sisters. "Go," he said, "be for ever
a stranger to my heart and me."

The Earl of Kent, one of Lear's favorite courtiers and captains,
tried to say a word for Cordelia's sake, but Lear would not listen.
He divided the kingdom between Goneril and Regan, and told them
that he should only keep a hundred knights at arms, and would live
with his daughters by turns.

When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cordelia would have no share
of the kingdom, he gave up his courtship of her. But the King of
France was wiser, and said, "Thy dowerless daughter, King, is
Queen of us--of ours, and our fair France."

"Take her, take her," said the King; "for I will never see that
face of hers again."

So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the Earl of Kent, for having
ventured to take her part, was banished from the kingdom. The
King now went to stay with his daughter Goneril, who had got
everything from her father that he had to give, and now began to
grudge even the hundred knights that he had reserved for himself.
She was harsh and undutiful to him, and her servants either
refused to obey his orders or pretended that they did not hear
them.

Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, made as though he would
go into another country, but instead he came back in the disguise
of a servingman and took service with the King. The King had now
two friends--the Earl of Kent, whom he only knew as his servant,
and his Fool, who was faithful to him. Goneril told her father
plainly that his knights only served to fill her Court with riot
and feasting; and so she begged him only to keep a few old men
about him such as himself.

"My train are men who know all parts of duty," said Lear. "Goneril,
I will not trouble you further--yet I have left another
daughter."

And his horses being saddled, he set out with his followers for
the castle of Regan. But she, who had formerly outdone her sister
in professions of attachment to the King, now seemed to outdo her
in undutiful conduct, saying that fifty knights were too many to
wait on him, and Goneril (who had hurried thither to prevent Regan
showing any kindness to the old King) said five were too many,
since her servants could wait on him.

Then when Lear saw that what they really wanted was to drive him
away, he left them. It was a wild and stormy night, and he wandered
about the heath half mad with misery, and with no companion but
the poor Fool. But presently his servant, the good Earl of Kent,
met him, and at last persuaded him to lie down in a wretched little
hovel. At daybreak the Earl of Kent removed his royal master to
Dover, and hurried to the Court of France to tell Cordelia what
had happened.

Cordelia's husband gave her an army and with it she landed at Dover.
Here she found poor King Lear, wandering about the fields, wearing
a crown of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and fed and
clothed him, and Cordelia came to him and kissed him.

"You must bear with me," said Lear; "forget and forgive. I am old
and foolish."

And now he knew at last which of his children it was that had loved
him best, and who was worthy of his love.

Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight Cordelia's army,
and were successful; and Cordelia and her father were thrown into
prison. Then Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany, who was a
good man, and had not known how wicked his wife was, heard the
truth of the whole story; and when Goneril found that her husband
knew her for the wicked woman she was, she killed herself, having
a little time before given a deadly poison to her sister, Regan,
out of a spirit of jealousy.

But they had arranged that Cordelia should be hanged in prison,
and though the Duke of Albany sent messengers at once, it was too
late. The old King came staggering into the tent of the Duke of
Albany, carrying the body of his dear daughter Cordelia, in his
arms.

And soon after, with words of love for her upon his lips, he fell
with her still in his arms, and died.

TWELFTH NIGHT

Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, was deeply in love with a beautiful
Countess named Olivia. Yet was all his love in vain, for she
disdained his suit; and when her brother died, she sent back a
messenger from the Duke, bidding him tell his master that for
seven years she would not let the very air behold her face, but
that, like a nun, she would walk veiled; and all this for the sake
of a dead brother's love, which she would keep fresh and lasting
in her sad remembrance.

The Duke longed for someone to whom he could tell his sorrow, and
repeat over and over again the story of his love. And chance
brought him such a companion. For about this time a goodly ship
was wrecked on the Illyrian coast, and among those who reached
land in safety were the captain and a fair young maid, named Viola.
But she was little grateful for being rescued from the perils of
the sea, since she feared that her twin brother was drowned,
Sebastian, as dear to her as the heart in her bosom, and so like
her that, but for the difference in their manner of dress, one
could hardly be told from the other. The captain, for her comfort,
told her that he had seen her brother bind himself "to a strong
mast that lived upon the sea," and that thus there was hope that
he might be saved.

Viola now asked in whose country she was, and learning that the
young Duke Orsino ruled there, and was as noble in his nature as
in his name, she decided to disguise herself in male attire, and
seek for employment with him as a page.

In this she succeeded, and now from day to day she had to listen
to the story of Orsino's love. At first she sympathized very
truly with him, but soon her sympathy grew to love. At last it
occurred to Orsino that his hopeless love-suit might prosper better
if he sent this pretty lad to woo Olivia for him. Viola unwillingly
went on this errand, but when she came to the house, Malvolio,
Olivia's steward, a vain, officious man, sick, as his mistress
told him, of self-love, forbade the messenger admittance.

Viola, however (who was now called Cesario), refused to take any
denial, and vowed to have speech with the Countess. Olivia,
hearing how her instructions were defied and curious to see this
daring youth, said, "We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy."

When Viola was admitted to her presence and the servants had been
sent away, she listened patiently to the reproaches which this
bold messenger from the Duke poured upon her, and listening she
fell in love with the supposed Cesario; and when Cesario had gone,
Olivia longed to send some love-token after him. So, calling
Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy.

"He left this ring behind him," she said, taking one from her
finger. "Tell him I will none of it."

Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew
perfectly well that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a
woman's quickness that Olivia loved her. Then she went back to
the Duke, very sad at heart for her lover, and for Olivia, and
for herself.

It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to
ease the pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while
Cesario stood by his side.

"Ah," said the Duke to his page that night, "you too have been in
love."

"A little," answered Viola.

"What kind of woman is it?" he asked.

"Of your complexion," she answered.

"What years, i' faith?" was his next question.

To this came the pretty answer, "About your years, my lord."

"Too old, by Heaven!" cried the Duke. "Let still the woman take
an elder than herself."

And Viola very meekly said, "I think it well, my lord."

By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and to
plead his love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said--

"If some lady loved you as you love Olivia?"

"Ah! that cannot be," said the Duke.

"But I know," Viola went on, "what love woman may have for a man.
My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be," she added
blushing, "perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship."

"And what is her history?" he asked.

"A blank, my lord," Viola answered. "She never told her love, but
let concealment like a worm in the bud feed on her damask cheek:
she pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she
sat, like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this
love indeed?"

"But died thy sister of her love, my boy?" the Duke asked; and
Viola, who had all the time been telling her own love for him in
this pretty fashion, said--

"I am all the daughters my father has and all the brothers-- Sir,
shall I go to the lady?"

"To her in haste," said the Duke, at once forgetting all about the
story, "and give her this jewel."

So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was unable to hide her
love, and openly confessed it with such passionate truth, that
Viola left her hastily, saying--

"Nevermore will I deplore my master's tears to you."

But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender pity she would
feel for other's suffering. So when Olivia, in the violence of
her love, sent a messenger, praying Cesario to visit her once
more, Cesario had no heart to refuse the request.

But the favors which Olivia bestowed upon this mere page aroused
the jealousy of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a foolish, rejected lover
of hers, who at that time was staying at her house with her merry
old uncle Sir Toby. This same Sir Toby dearly loved a practical
joke, and knowing Sir Andrew to be an arrant coward, he thought
that if he could bring off a duel between him and Cesario, there
would be rare sport indeed. So he induced Sir Andrew to send a
challenge, which he himself took to Cesario. The poor page, in
great terror, said--

"I will return again to the house, I am no fighter."

"Back you shall not to the house," said Sir Toby, "unless you fight
me first."

And as he looked a very fierce old gentleman, Viola thought it best
to await Sir Andrew's coming; and when he at last made his
appearance, in a great fright, if the truth had been known, she
tremblingly drew her sword, and Sir Andrew in like fear followed
her example. Happily for them both, at this moment some officers
of the Court came on the scene, and stopped the intended duel.
Viola gladly made off with what speed she might, while Sir Toby
called after her--

"A very paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare!"

Now, while these things were happening, Sebastian had escaped all
the dangers of the deep, and had landed safely in Illyria, where
he determined to make his way to the Duke's Court. On his way
thither he passed Olivia's house just as Viola had left it in such
a hurry, and whom should he meet but Sir Andrew and Sir Toby.
Sir Andrew, mistaking Sebastian for the cowardly Cesario, took
his courage in both hands, and walking up to him struck him,
saying, "There's for you."

"Why, there's for you; and there, and there!" said Sebastian,
bitting back a great deal harder, and again and again, till Sir
Toby came to the rescue of his friend. Sebastian, however, tore
himself free from Sir Toby's clutches, and drawing his sword would
have fought them both, but that Olivia herself, having heard of
the quarrel, came running in, and with many reproaches sent Sir
Toby and his friend away. Then turning to Sebastian, whom she
too thought to be Cesario, she besought him with many a pretty
speech to come into the house with her.

Sebastian, half dazed and all delighted with her beauty and grace,
readily consented, and that very day, so great was Olivia's baste,
they were married before she had discovered that he was not Cesario,
or Sebastian was quite certain whether or not he was in a dream.

Meanwhile Orsino, hearing how ill Cesario sped with Olivia, visited
her himself, taking Cesario with him. Olivia met them both before
her door, and seeing, as she thought, her husband there, reproached
him for leaving her, while to the Duke she said that his suit was
as fat and wholesome to her as howling after music.

"Still so cruel?" said Orsino.

"Still so constant," she answered.

Then Orsino's anger growing to cruelty, he vowed that, to be revenged
on her, he would kill Cesario, whom he knew she loved. "Come,
boy," he said to the page.

And Viola, following him as he moved away, said, "I, to do you
rest, a thousand deaths would die."

A great fear took hold on Olivia, and she cried aloud, "Cesario,
husband, stay!"

"Her husband?" asked the Duke angrily.

"No, my lord, not I," said Viola.

"Call forth the holy father," cried Olivia.

And the priest who had married Sebastian and Olivia, coming in,
declared Cesario to be the bridegroom.

"O thou dissembling cub!" the Duke exclaimed. "Farewell, and take
her, but go where thou and I henceforth may never meet."

At this moment Sir Andrew came up with bleeding crown, complaining
that Cesario had broken his head, and Sir Toby's as well.

"I never hurt you," said Viola, very positively; "you drew your
sword on me, but I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not."

Yet, for all her protesting, no one there believed her; but all
their thoughts were on a sudden changed to wonder, when Sebastian
came in.

"I am sorry, madam," he said to his wife, "I have hurt your kinsman.
Pardon me, sweet, even for the vows we made each other so late
ago."

"One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!" cried the Duke,
looking first at Viola, and then at Sebastian.

"An apple cleft in two," said one who knew Sebastian, "is not more
twin than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?"

"I never had a brother," said Sebastian. "I had a sister, whom
the blind waves and surges have devoured."  "Were you a woman,"
he said to Viola, "I should let my tears fall upon your cheek,
and say, 'Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!'"

Then Viola, rejoicing to see her dear brother alive, confessed that
she was indeed his sister, Viola. As she spoke, Orsino felt the
pity that is akin to love.

"Boy," he said, "thou hast said to me a thousand times thou never
shouldst love woman like to me."

"And all those sayings will I overswear," Viola replied, "and all
those swearings keep true."

"Give me thy hand," Orsino cried in gladness. "Thou shalt be my
wife, and my fancy's queen."

Thus was the gentle Viola made happy, while Olivia found in Sebastian
a constant lover, and a good husband, and he in her a true and
loving wife.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

In Sicily is a town called Messina, which is the scene of a curious
storm in a teacup that raged several hundred years ago.

It began with sunshine. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon, in Spain,
had gained so complete a victory over his foes that the very land
whence they came is forgotten. Feeling happy and playful after
the fatigues of war, Don Pedro came for a holiday to Messina, and
in his suite were his stepbrother Don John and two young Italian
lords, Benedick and Claudio.

Benedick was a merry chatterbox, who had determined to live a
bachelor. Claudio, on the other hand, no sooner arrived at Messina
than he fell in love with Hero, the daughter of Leonato, Governor
of Messina.

One July day, a perfumer called Borachio was burning dried lavender
in a musty room in Leonato's house, when the sound of conversation
floated through the open window.

"Give me your candid opinion of Hero," Claudio, asked, and Borachio
settled himself for comfortable listening.

"Too short and brown for praise," was Benedick's reply; "but alter
her color or height, and you spoil her."

"In my eyes she is the sweetest of women," said Claudio.

"Not in mine," retorted Benedick, "and I have no need for glasses.
She is like the last day of December compared with the first of
May if you set her beside her cousin. Unfortunately, the Lady
Beatrice is a fury."

Beatrice was Leonato's niece. She amused herself by saying witty
and severe things about Benedick, who called her Dear Lady Disdain.
She was wont to say that she was born under a dancing star, and
could not therefore be dull.

Claudio and Benedick were still talking when Don Pedro came up and
said good-humoredly, "Well, gentlemen, what's the secret?"

"I am longing," answered Benedick, "for your Grace to command me
to tell."

"I charge you, then, on your allegiance to tell me," said Don Pedro,
falling in with his humor.

"I can be as dumb as a mute," apologized Benedick to Claudio, "but
his Grace commands my speech."  To Don Pedro he said, "Claudio is
in love with Hero, Leonato's short daughter."

Don Pedro was pleased, for he admired Hero and was fond of Claudio.
When Benedick had departed, he said to Claudio, "Be steadfast in
your love for Hero, and I will help you to win her. To-night her
father gives a masquerade, and I will pretend I am Claudio, and
tell her how Claudio loves her, and if she be pleased, I will go
to her father and ask his consent to your union."

Most men like to do their own wooing, but if you fall in love with
a Governor's only daughter, you are fortunate if you can trust a
prince to plead for you.

Claudio then was fortunate, but he was unfortunate as well, for he
had an enemy who was outwardly a friend. This enemy was Don
Pedro's stepbrother Don John, who was jealous of Claudio because
Don Pedro preferred him to Don John.

It was to Don John that Borachio came with the interesting conversation
which he had overheard.

"I shall have some fun at that masquerade myself," said Don John
when Borachio ceased speaking.

On the night of the masquerade, Don Pedro, masked and pretending
he was Claudio, asked Hero if he might walk with her.

They moved away together, and Don John went up to Claudio and said,
"Signor Benedick, I believe?"  "The same," fibbed Claudio.

"I should be much obliged then," said Don John, "if you would use
your influence with my brother to cure him of his love for Hero.
She is beneath him in rank."

"How do you know he loves her?" inquired Claudio.

"I heard him swear his affection," was the reply, and Borachio
chimed in with, "So did I too."

Claudio was then left to himself, and his thought was that his
Prince had betrayed him. "Farewell, Hero," he muttered; "I was
a fool to trust to an agent."

Meanwhile Beatrice and Benedick (who was masked) were having a
brisk exchange of opinions.

"Did Benedick ever make you laugh?" asked she.

"Who is Benedick?" he inquired.

"A Prince's jester," replied Beatrice, and she spoke so sharply
that "I would not marry her," he declared afterwards, "if her
estate were the Garden of Eden."

But the principal speaker at the masquerade was neither Beatrice
nor Benedick. It was Don Pedro, who carried out his plan to the
letter, and brought the light back to Claudio's face in a twinkling,
by appearing before him with Leonato and Hero, and saying, "Claudio,
when would you like to go to church?"

"To-morrow," was the prompt answer. "Time goes on crutches till
I marry Hero."

"Give her a week, my dear son," said Leonato, and Claudio's heart
thumped with joy.

"And now," said the amiable Don Pedro, "we must find a wife for
Signor Benedick. It is a task for Hercules."

"I will help you," said Leonato, "if I have to sit up ten nights."

Then Hero spoke. "I will do what I can, my lord, to find a good
husband for Beatrice."

Thus, with happy laughter, ended the masquerade which had given
Claudio a lesson for nothing.

Borachio cheered up Don John by laying a plan before him with which
he was confident he could persuade both Claudio and Don Pedro that
Hero was a fickle girl who had two strings to her bow. Don John
agreed to this plan of hate.

Don Pedro, on the other hand, had devised a cunning plan of love.
"If," he said to Leonato, "we pretend, when Beatrice is near
enough to overhear us, that Benedick is pining for her love, she
will pity him, see his good qualities, and love him. And if, when
Benedick thinks we don't know he is listening, we say how sad it
is that the beautiful Beatrice should be in love with a heartless
scoffer like Benedick, he will certainly be on his knees before
her in a week or less."

So one day, when Benedick was reading in a summer-house, Claudio
sat down outside it with Leonato, and said, "Your daughter told
me something about a letter she wrote."

"Letter!" exclaimed Leonato. "She will get up twenty times in the
night and write goodness knows what. But once Hero peeped, and
saw the words 'Benedick and Beatrice' on the sheet, and then
Beatrice tore it up."

"Hero told me," said Claudio, "that she cried, 'O sweet Benedick!'"

Benedick was touched to the core by this improbable story, which
he was vain enough to believe. "She is fair and good," he said
to himself. "I must not seem proud. I feel that I love her.
People will laugh, of course; but their paper bullets will do me
no harm."

At this moment Beatrice came to the summerhouse, and said, "Against
my will, I have come to tell you that dinner is ready."

"Fair Beatrice, I thank you," said Benedick.

"I took no more pains to come than you take pains to thank me,"
was the rejoinder, intended to freeze him.

But it did not freeze him. It warmed him. The meaning he squeezed
out of her rude speech was that she was delighted to come to him.

Hero, who had undertaken the task of melting the heart of Beatrice,
took no trouble to seek an occasion. She simply said to her maid
Margaret one day, "Run into the parlor and whisper to Beatrice
that Ursula and I are talking about her in the orchard."

Having said this, she felt as sure that Beatrice would overhear
what was meant for her ears as if she had made an appointment with
her cousin.

In the orchard was a bower, screened from the sun by honeysuckles,
and Beatrice entered it a few minutes after Margaret had gone on
her errand.

"But are you sure," asked Ursula, who was one of Hero's attendants,
"that Benedick loves Beatrice so devotedly?"

"So say the Prince and my betrothed," replied Hero, "and they wished
me to tell her, but I said, 'No! Let Benedick get over it.'"

"Why did you say that?"

"Because Beatrice is unbearably proud. Her eyes sparkle with
disdain and scorn. She is too conceited to love. I should not
like to see her making game of poor Benedick's love. I would
rather see Benedick waste away like a covered fire."

"I don't agree with you," said Ursula. "I think your cousin is
too clear-sighted not to see the merits of Benedick."  "He is the
one man in Italy, except Claudio," said Hero.

The talkers then left the orchard, and Beatrice, excited and tender,
stepped out of the summer-house, saying to herself, "Poor dear
Benedick, be true to me, and your love shall tame this wild heart
of mine."

We now return to the plan of hate.

The night before the day fixed for Claudio's wedding, Don John
entered a room in which Don Pedro and Claudio were conversing,
and asked Claudio if he intended to be married to-morrow.

"You know he does!" said Don Pedro.

"He may know differently," said Don John, "when he has seen what
I will show him if he will follow me."

They followed him into the garden; and they saw a lady leaning out
of Hero's window talking love to Borachio.

Claudio thought the lady was Hero, and said, "I will shame her for
it to-morrow!" Don Pedro thought she was Hero, too; but she was
not Hero; she was Margaret.

Don John chuckled noiselessly when Claudio and Don Pedro quitted
the garden; he gave Borachio a purse containing a thousand ducats.

The money made Borachio feel very gay, and when he was walking in
the street with his friend Conrade, he boasted of his wealth and
the giver, and told what he had done.

A watchman overheard them, and thought that a man who had been paid
a thousand ducats for villainy was worth taking in charge. He
therefore arrested Borachio and Conrade, who spent the rest of
the night in prison.

Before noon of the next day half the aristocrats in Messina were
at church. Hero thought it was her wedding day, and she was there
in her wedding dress, no cloud on her pretty face or in her frank
and shining eyes.

The priest was Friar Francis.

Turning to Claudio, he said, "You come hither, my lord, to marry
this lady?"  "No!" contradicted Claudio.

Leonato thought he was quibbling over grammar. "You should have
said, Friar," said he, "'You come to be married to her.'"

Friar Francis turned to Hero. "Lady," he said, "you come hither
to be married to this Count?"  "I do," replied Hero.

"If either of you know any impediment to this marriage, I charge
you to utter it," said the Friar.

"Do you know of any, Hero?" asked Claudio. "None," said she.

"Know you of any, Count?" demanded the Friar. "I dare reply for
him, 'None,'" said Leonato.

Claudio exclaimed bitterly, "O! what will not men dare say! Father,"
he continued, "will you give me your daughter?"  "As freely,"
replied Leonato, "as God gave her to me."

"And what can I give you," asked Claudio, "which is worthy of this
gift?"  "Nothing," said Don Pedro, "unless you give the gift back
to the giver."

"Sweet Prince, you teach me," said Claudio. "There, Leonato, take
her back."

These brutal words were followed by others which flew from Claudio,
Don Pedro and Don John.

The church seemed no longer sacred. Hero took her own part as long
as she could, then she swooned. All her persecutors left the
church, except her father, who was befooled by the accusations
against her, and cried, "Hence from her! Let her die!"

But Friar Francis saw Hero blameless with his clear eyes that probed
the soul. "She is innocent," he said; "a thousand signs have told
me so."

Hero revived under his kind gaze. Her father, flurried and angry,
knew not what to think, and the Friar said, "They have left her
as one dead with shame. Let us pretend that she is dead until the
truth is declared, and slander turns to remorse."

"The Friar advises well," said Benedick. Then Hero was led away
into a retreat, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone in the
church.

Benedick knew she had been weeping bitterly and long. "Surely I
do believe your fair cousin is wronged," he said. She still wept.

"Is it not strange," asked Benedick, gently, "that I love nothing
in the world as well as you?"

"It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing as well as you,"
said Beatrice, "but I do not say it. I am sorry for my cousin."

"Tell me what to do for her," said Benedick. "Kill Claudio."

"Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick. "Your refusal kills
me," said Beatrice. "Farewell."

"Enough! I will challenge him," cried Benedick.

During this scene Borachio and Conrade were in prison. There they
were examined by a constable called Dogberry.

The watchman gave evidence to the effect that Borachio had said
that he had received a thousand ducats for conspiring against
Hero.

Leonato was not present at this examination, but he was nevertheless
now thoroughly convinced Of Hero's innocence. He played the part
of bereaved father very well, and when Don Pedro and Claudio called
on him in a friendly way, he said to the Italian, "You have
slandered my child to death, and I challenge you to combat."

"I cannot fight an old man," said Claudio.

"You could kill a girl," sneered Leonato, and Claudio crimsoned.

Hot words grew from hot words, and both Don Pedro and Claudio were
feeling scorched when Leonato left the room and Benedick entered.

"The old man," said Claudio, "was like to have snapped my nose
off."

"You are a villain!" said Benedick, shortly. "Fight me when and
with what weapon you please, or I call you a coward."

Claudio was astounded, but said, "I'll meet you. Nobody shall say
I can't carve a calf's head."

Benedick smiled, and as it was time for Don Pedro to receive
officials, the Prince sat down in a chair of state and prepared
his mind for justice.

The door soon opened to admit Dogberry and his prisoners.

"What offence," said Don Pedro, "are these men charged with?"

Borachio thought the moment a happy one for making a clean breast
of it. He laid the whole blame on Don John, who had disappeared.
"The lady Hero being dead," he said, "I desire nothing but